


Defiant

by brooklynbex



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Wakanda (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-18 08:39:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16114826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklynbex/pseuds/brooklynbex
Summary: Set after the end credit scene in Civil War, Bucky is brought out of cryostasis, and Steve is there to greet him. As the ex-assassin struggles to reclaim his memories and navigate his path to recovery, Steve is willing to do whatever he can to ensure his best friend’s healing—even if that means leaving Wakanda. With enough stubbornness to fill the Hudson River, Steve wrestles with heartbreak and guilt, while Bucky fears he’ll never get better, he’ll never remember all that he was before Hydra—all that Steve believes him to be. But the two will eventually realize that in order to heal, you sometimes need your best friend (and soulmate) by your side.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Dani Kjötkveðja for beta reading!
> 
> Fic-inspired fan art by Annika Pietsch will be posted with the final chapter.

**Prologue**

 

They said you were darkness, and I was light. They said you were a monster, and I a hero. They said I had to let you go, but my grip was unyielding. For in a world, in a universe so vast, the only place I ever considered home, was you.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter One**

 

**Somewhere over Kazakhstan (Steve)**

 

Five words and his focus on the mission at hand goes to complete and utter shit.

 

He grips the phone as though it’s simultaneously burning and soothing the flesh of his palm. Steve reads the text from the unknown number again—whether to convince himself it’s real or in an attempt to ground himself—perhaps both.

 

**_We’re going to wake him._ **

 

The message is either from Shuri or T’Challa, Steve isn’t sure, but he knows exactly who they’re talking about, and where he needs to redirect the quinjet to.

 

He alerts Sam and Nat, doing his best to keep his voice even and void of emotion, “Change of plans. Reroute and head south-southeast.”

 

“This better be good. We had a solid lead, Steve,” Nat pipes up from the passenger side of the cockpit.

 

“Where to exactly?” asks Sam, eyes never leaving the open skies in front of him.

 

“Wakanda.”

 

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Nat says, giving a side smirk to no one in particular.

 

Steve opens his mouth to offer a witty comeback, but shuts it with a snap, worried his knotted stomach will make a surprise appearance instead. With a shake of his head, he turns on the heel of his boot and heads to the back of the quinjet.

 

It’s been five months and 17 days since he watched his friend willingly go into cryostatis. Five months and 17 days that Steve had spent praying to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore, asking for his oldest friend to be healed; begging for a 16-year-old scientist in her high-tech lab, which would make Tony Stark jealous, to bring peace to the tortured ex-assassin.

 

Steve exhales and closes his eyes. They would enter Wakandan airspace in just under ten hours. Maybe he could sleep for at least half of the flight.

 

Steve sleeps for approximately 34 minutes before jolting awake in a state of panic. He scrambles on the cot in search of the phone. Once in hand, he rereads the text and tries to regulate his breathing. With a sigh, Steve stands up and walks to the cockpit.

 

His face the epitome of stress; if super soldiers could get bags under their eyes, Steve Rogers would have shadows that extended to the apples of his cheeks. He’s wrecked. He asks to take over as pilot as he approaches Sam and Natasha. Sam’s impending protest is cut short when he looks at Steve’s expression.

 

In a show of mercy, Sam removes himself from the pilot seat. As Steve straps in, Nat’s hand comes to rest overtop his. Steve’s eyes flit up to meet hers.

 

“He’s going to be OK,” she says.

 

He offers a weak smile and squeezes her hand with his thumb.

 

**Wakanda (Steve)**

 

When they land, T’Challa is there to great them. He ushers them into an elevator that resembles a spaceship. Steve assumes it’s made of or at least powered by vibranium. They exchange pleasantries, but everyone can tell that Steve is distracted.

 

“Captain?”

 

“Hm?” Steve mumbles.

 

“We’ve reached the lab,” T’Challa smirks.

 

Steve blushes and tries to hide his face, letting his eyes fall to the floor.

 

As they descend further into the lab, Steve spots the cryo chamber. He’s torn between smiling and crying at the sight of his best friend’s sleeping form, still dressed in the same stark white tank top, hair pushed back out of his face.

 

He shakes free from his thoughts when Shuri side steps into view.

 

“Captain! Welcome back. I hope you’re prepared to wake Sleeping Beauty,” she all but giggles.

 

“I—”

 

“I kid, I kid! I know you’re from the Depression Era, but you and I both know that’s not how science works,” she tuts, eyes sparkling.

 

Steve blushes again and forces out a nervous laugh. He thinks Shuri pretends not to notice, and internally thanks her for sparing a shred of his dignity.

 

“Actually, for safety purposes, you and your two other American friends will have to wait upstairs in the observation deck while we wake Sergeant—”

 

Natasha steps forward to interrupt. “Safety purposes? Have the triggers not been removed?”

 

“On the contrary, Ms. Romanoff. I do believe my sister has been successful, however, we do not want to alarm Mr. Barnes in any way. We feel it is best that he is faced with as little stimuli as possible upon waking,” replies T’Challa.

 

“Not even Steve?” asks Sam from behind Steve.

 

“Afraid not. Our hope is to maintain a calm environment before introducing any unnecessary variables that may—”

 

Shuri cuts her brother off with an exasperated sigh, “We want to keep his heart rate from elevating too rapidly and we think Steve’s presence will have the opposite effect.”

 

“Oh! That’s fair,” Sam snickers.

 

Steve’s certain his face must resemble an overripe tomato by now.

 

“Now that we’ve cleared that up. Shoo! All of you. Get out of my lab, I have a patient to tend to,” says Shuri, tone stern but ever playful.

 

Steve watches from the deck with laserfocus as the Wakandan Princess prepares the lab; T’Challa stands patiently to the side with Okoye and another Dora Milaje at his back. Steve continues to scan the room, eventually zeroing in on a syringe. He tenses.

 

Natasha moves toward him. “It’s a tranquilizer. I’m sure they won’t need to use it, Steve.”

 

His gazes flickers toward her in acknowledgement. He wants to thank her, and Sam, and everyone in the room, but he can’t get his mouth to open. He needs to see him awake first.

 

Shuri’s face tilts up to the observation deck with a quick nod. She’s unable to see them through the mirrored glass, but knows they’re watching—or at least Steve is watching.

 

He sucks in a breath and nods back on impulse.

 

The process itself was rather simple. The chamber was currently set to absolute zero, resulting in suspended animation. Once Shuri cuts the power source, the temperature would elevate, allowing the super soldier’s body to return to normal and alert function.

In mere minutes, his eyes begin to flutter open.

 

“Bucky…” Steve whispers, letting the air his lungs release in whoosh behind the two-syllable name. He presses his palm against the mirrored glass with a gentle thud.

 

He watches as his best friend winces, eyes adjusting to the bright lights of the lab. Confusion washes over his face until his gaze lands on Shuri.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes.”

 

“I always dreaded mornings,” jokes Bucky, voice hoarse from months of unuse. Steve’s heart swells at the humor. “So… I’m fixed?”

 

“Indeed! I have removed all of the triggers that HYDRA implanted. You are a free man!” Shuri exclaims.

 

“My sister’s enthusiasm and certainty aside, we would like to perform a test of sorts,” T’Challa interrupts.

 

“You want to read the list.”

 

“Yes. Just to be sure.”

 

“Do you have more security than those two in place?” asks Bucky, pointing to the Dora Milaje. Steve’s stomach churns.

 

“We have proper security measures in place if need be,” responds T’Challa, voice stoic and soft.

 

“They won’t be needed,” Shuri tries to reassure.

 

Bucky presses a curled fist to his right side, but still manages to give Shuri a smile before speaking. “Go ahead.”

 

A wave of nausea washes over Steve. He draws his hand back from the glass and hugs his torso. T’Challa gives Bucky a sympathetic glance before looking down at the list he’s clutching.

 

“Longing. Rusted. Furnace. Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign. Nine. Homecoming. One.” The rhythm with which he speaks is interrupted by a brief pause. T’Challa looks back at the observation deck in Steve’s direction. Steve tries to nod, but only manages an anxious gulp instead. T’Challa’s eyes revert back to the list. “...Freight car.”

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the end credit scene in Civil War, Bucky is brought out of cryostasis, and Steve is there to greet him. As the ex-assassin struggles to reclaim his memories and navigate his path to recovery, Steve is willing to do whatever he can to ensure his best friend’s healing—even if that means leaving Wakanda. With enough stubbornness to fill the Hudson River, Steve wrestles with heartbreak and guilt, while Bucky fears he’ll never get better, he’ll never remember all that he was before Hydra—all that Steve believes him to be. But the two will eventually realize that in order to heal, you sometimes need your best friend (and soulmate) by your side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Dani Kjötkveðja for beta reading!
> 
> Fic-inspired fan art by Annika Pietsch will be posted with the final chapter.

******Wakanda**

 

**(Bucky)**

 

Bucky blinks into the fluorescent lighting of the lab. T’Challa has yet to move, closer or away from the ex-assassin, but Steve can tell that his shoulders are drawn up in anticipation.

 

“Mr. Barnes?” He asks.

 

Bucky’s face breaks into a grin. “Holy shit. It worked.”

 

“Well of course it worked! I have a 99.878% success rate with anything requiring the usage of more than the average number of brain cells—which is 100 billion—if you were wondering,” bolstered Shuri.

 

“Humility would be a good look on you, sister.”

 

The princess scoffs at the suggestion.

 

Bucky pipes up, “To be fair, she somehow managed to annihilate decades worth of brainwashing courtesy of HYDRA and their psychotic biochemist.”

 

The king’s eyes narrow.

 

Bucky shrugs.

 

“See, brother! Listen to the broken white boy. He has seen things even we cannot imagine. Wait, can I no longer call you that? I refuse to be inaccurate with my petty labeling.”

 

Bucky winces at the nickname, but releases a short laugh. He’s already a sucker for Shuri’s infectious energy. “Brainwashing aside, I think you can still label me as broken.”

 

He ignores the way T’Challa’s eyes glaze over with a sickening sympathy. He doesn’t want sympathy, he just wants to be healed.

 

“Sergeant Barnes, I can assure you that a replacement—”

 

“Upgraded!” Shuri scowls.

 

T’Challa starts again, “an upgraded arm can be ready in hours.”

 

“That’s not the broken part I was referring to, but thanks for the reminder.” Bucky flinches at his own remark. His usual Brooklyn charm has been weathered down to sass and a short temper. Just another area to improve on, he thinks.

 

“I like this guy,” Shuri smirks. “We should have thawed him out sooner.”

 

T’Challa snarls, but is quick to draw back when he realizes the wounded soldier’s face has busted into a toothy grin directed at his little sister.

 

“You remind me of someone. I-I,” he stutters. He clamps his eyes shut as if disrupting his vision will improve his brain function. “I, I can’t…” Bucky trails off. The air in the room shifts. His fingers curl into his palm and he slams his first back against the metal of the cryogenic chamber. Pain radiates up his only viable arm. “Shit, shit. I’m sorry. I told you I was still in need of fixing.”

 

“Your memory will take time, but it will return, Mr. Barnes.”

 

“Call me Bucky. Please.”

 

“Of course—”

 

“It’s what Steve calls me…”

 

T’Challa nods in understanding.

 

“Speaking of Steve,” Shuri comments, attempting to break the dismal atmosphere.

 

Bucky perks up with a mix of worry and desperate intrigue. “Is he OK?”

 

Before either of the Wakandan royalty can respond, the doors to the lab shove open, the panels moaning as they’re met with an impatient, brute force.

 

Once Okoye is certain of the King’s safety, her eyes give an involuntary roll at the abrupt intrusion. 

 

After passing through the doorway, Steve freezes awkwardly, suddenly aware of the looks he’s receiving. He shrugs sheepishly, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Sorry, I just—”

 

T’Challa halts Steve’s apology with a raised hand. He gives a knowing glance and moves away from Bucky, heading toward the exit with the Dora Milaje in toe. He motions for Shuri to follow.

 

When the doors slide shut, Bucky shakes his head in disbelief and clambers out of the cryo chamber. Steve is staring.

 

A teasing grin spreads across Bucky’s face and his arm extends in invitation.

 

Steve surges forward, hands clutching Bucky’s broad shoulders in an embrace.

 

“Told you you’d see me again.”

 

“Buck…”

 

“Just admit it Steve, I was right.”

 

Steve chuckles, hot air ghosting over the nape of Bucky’s neck. Bucky burrows further into Steve.

 

They both sigh.

 

Bucky pokes at Steve’s bicep. “I said admit it.”

 

Steve shakes his head as he speaks, “You were right, OK?”

 

“Damn straight, Steve. I was right.” They hug each other tighter.

 

**(Steve)**

 

A week passes. Natasha and Sam depart Wakanda three days after Bucky’s resurrection of sorts, but Steve insists on staying—against his best friend’s wishes.

 

Steve awakes to an empty bed, and with the way the sun is barely beating down on the hut, he knows that dawn is just beginning its process of greeting the African land. With a wide yawn, Steve rolls out of bed and exits the quaint, temporary home in search of Bucky.

 

He spots his silhouette within seconds, thick hair dusting the tops of broad shoulders that on one side gave way to a bulky bicep and on the other, a stump. Steve had tried to encourage his best friend to at least listen to Shuri’s offer of an upgrade, but the retired assassin grew cold any time someone suggested it.

 

He climbs the hill to where Bucky is busy moving stacks of hay. As his legs carry him up to the top, Steve can’t help but recall a time when this much exertion would leave him breathless, maybe even wheezing and on the brink of an asthma attack. But here he is, firm and sturdy and sure footed, thanks to a tiny bottle of liquid. The same, or rather knock-off, liquid that ran through Bucky’s veins. But from what Steve can see, it wasn’t a second-rate serum at all. Bucky has always been strong and agile, but now, now he’s built like a brick wall. 

 

“Quit starin’, punk.” Steve’s eyes jolt upward to Bucky’s face in surprise. “I know I’m good lookin’, but you’re being real obvious there. You’ll give the goats a complex.”

 

Steve laughs, “Sorry, just observing and comparing one super soldier body to another. Have to make sure I’m keeping up.”

 

Bucky huffs and tosses the stack of hay he’s holding at Steve. Although still in need of caffeine, Steve’s reflexes kick in and he snatches the hay before it makes contact with his chest.

 

“See. You’re fine,” Bucky says. “Now help me finish moving these.”

 

The two fall in tandem as they transport the stacks from the bed of the truck onto the field. Steve tries his best to remain silent and focused on the task, but his mind is eager to ask the same question he’s been asking Bucky all week: ‘How’d you sleep?’ He knows he’s being exceptionally hopeful, perhaps ignorant even, but he so desperately wants Bucky to get a reprieve from the nightmares.

 

His mouth parts, only to clamp shut, words still lodged in his throat.

 

“Quit that.”

 

“What?”

 

“Making that face. Like you’re in pain,” Bucky grumbles. “Steve, just say it. Ask it. Whatever it is that’s got your panties in a bunch.”

 

“You were up early again…”

 

Bucky releases a groan. “I was.”

 

Steve sighs, dropping the stack in hand and moving to cut off the other man.

 

“Another nightmare?” Bucky nods. “You should have woken me up. I could have help—”

 

“Helped? How, Steve? By telling me it was just a dream?” Bucky goes to bypass the mass of muscle and bone that is his oldest friend, but his getaway is roadblocked once more. He takes a step back in disbelief, his nonchalant demeanor cracking. “You don’t get it. I know they’re dreams, I know it’s all in my head. That’s the problem. Me.”

 

“The nightmares aren’t you, Buck.”

 

“They are, Steve,” Bucky replies. “They’re memories of what I did. All the people I’ve killed, all the chaos I’ve caused.”

 

Steve places a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We talked about this.”

 

“You’re right, we  _ have _ talked about this. Time to move on.” Bucky shakes free of Steve’s grasp and returns to the truck.

 

The cool-headed manner that Steve adapted to since donning the stars and stripes is dwindling. “Fine. But if you won’t talk to me, then you need to talk to someone else,” he snaps.

 

Bucky flinches. Steve waits for him to turn around, to challenge him head on, but instead, Bucky snatches the keys from the tailgate of the truck and jumps in the driver’s seat. Just as the engine roars to life, Steve bolts for the passenger side.

 

When his hand reaches for the door, the truck lurches forward. Steve shakes his head at the situation. With anyone else, he would have taken the hint, dropped the subject, and given the person space to breathe. But with Bucky, well, he isn’t interested in space.

 

He knows he can keep pace with the vehicle if Bucky takes off, but he opts for pulling his body into the cab. Sure, he isn’t Captain America anymore, but he still has some dignity to uphold—and sprinting alongside your freshly thawed-out best friend of almost a century would probably create an alarming, though comedic, sight for the few Wakandan citizens and farm animals alert at this hour.

 

The passenger door swings open as the wheels start to turn. Before the vehicle can gain speed, Steve grips the weathered upholstery to boost himself up and into the seat. Once inside, he slams the door shut.

 

Although Bucky’s face remains unmoved, his eyes dart to the side to give Steve an uneasy glare. “You’re suggesting I go see a shrink?” he asks, voice strained.

 

Steve sighs. “Don’t say it like that.”

 

“You think I’m crazy.”

 

“I don’t. I think you’ve been through hell. And it hurts to see you suffer.”

 

**(Bucky)**

 

Bucky’s throat tightens at the thought of his pain causing Steve discomfort. He feels like a burden. He almost wishes Shuri had left him in cryo to just _ exist _ . No nightmares, no lapses in memories, no way for him to cause disappointment or harm to those around him.

 

His foot lifts off the gas pedal and shifts to apply pressure to the brakes. He needs to convince Steve to leave Wakanda, to get back to his life and leave Bucky to just chip away at the salvageable bits of his brain alone. He doesn’t want Steve to worry, or anyone for that matter. Steve is right, he has been through hell. But he’s also brought hell upon countless others. Maybe having a busted up brain with gaping holes where childhood memories were supposed to be is karma at work. And if that’s the case, then Bucky feels like he’s been let off easy.

 

With the truck in park, Bucky turns to face Steve. For the first time since waking, Bucky takes the time to really look at Steve. Even without the shield and the uniform, he’s still Captain America. Everything moral and heroic and light encompassed in a single man. He looks grittier than the Captain from the war posters in the 40s, a robust beard shrouding his innocent face, but he’s still Steve. His favorite human in the world—probably even in the entire universe.

 

Steve interrupts Bucky’s thoughts, “Who’s the one staring now, Buck.”

 

Bucky tries to keep his lips from curling into a smile but fails. The heaviness of the air is momentarily disrupted. He peers at Steve from the corner of his eye.

 

Bucky can’t help but see that little kid from Brooklyn before him. All floppy blonde hair, wide, but determined blue eyes trying not to crinkle when he smiles. Under the tough exterior, worn and weathered in invisible ways by countless battles, his feisty pal is still there. How, Bucky’s not sure. He wonders if Steve sometimes envisions him before all of this—before the world took its frustrations out on them. Bucky’s face saddens at the thought. He knows he needs to offer a compromise if he wants to convince Steve to leave Wakanda.

 

“Let’s make a deal,” he says.

 

“Sure. But only if I get what I want.”

 

Bucky laughs, “Naturally.” Steve is impatient, eager to know the details of said deal. “If I agree to see a shrink—”

 

“A psychologist,” Steve corrects. 

 

Bucky forces his eyes to not roll and starts over. “If I agree to see a 'psychologist,' then you need to leave Wakanda and go back to whatever it was you were doing before I woke up.”

 

Steve’s face sours. “You want me to leave?”

 

“Steve,” Bucky frowns. “I want you to not worry about me.”

 

“My whereabouts won’t change my concern.”

 

“It will if you’re knee deep in exposing corrupt government facilities and Hydra goons are at your back trying to murder you.”

 

“Won’t matter.”

“Why?” Bucky asks on impulse.

 

“Because you matter more, Buck.”

 

“So cheesy, Rogers—even for you,” Bucky smiles. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

 

“And you’re going to get better, you know that?”

 

“Steve…”

 

“You are. And if that requires my absence, I’ll go.”

 

Later that evening, Bucky finds himself in Shuri’s lab, sans Steve. Communication between the two had gone all but silent following Steve’s agreement to depart. When Bucky told him he had an appointment with Shuri, he was secretly hoping Steve would suggest he come with, but all he was granted was a lackluster nod of acknowledgement.

 

So now he’s sitting as still as possible while Shuri pokes and prods his veins collecting blood samples. She connects a third vial before Bucky speaks his first words of their interaction.

 

“What are you testing for anyway?”

 

“He speaks!”

 

Bucky frowns.

 

“I assumed there was trouble in paradise by your grim appearance.”

 

“You didn’t answer the question,” he retorts.

 

“Chemistry panel and a complete blood count. You may be an enhanced human, but you’re still mortal—although I do generally enjoy sticking test subjects with needles for fun,” she quips.

 

Bucky shakes his head. For a moment, he considers casually revisiting the topic of ‘trouble in paradise,’ but fails to craft a transition that will seem, well, casual. As Shuri caps the last tube of blood, he rises from the chair and starts for the door. When he reaches the threshold, he hesitates. There’s so much frustration brimming beneath his skin and bubbling between his ears. It’s moments like these when Bucky would give up his good arm for the ability to get drunk again. He could settle down somewhere secluded with a cheap, foul-tasting bottle of whiskey and get sloshed until he can barely stand, let alone think.

 

“Sergeant?

 

The princess’ thick-accented voice cuts through his inner monologue. He pivots gradually to face her. Shuri’s usual sunny aura is missing, now masked by furrowed brows and a pair of concerned eyes. She gestures for him to come back and sit down in the chair. He knows she won’t be doing more tests today, so he’s quick to realize that she’s inviting him to confide in her. He hesitates. Needles aren’t his favorite, but talking about his feelings? Emotional transparency is what his nightmares are made of—in addition to the Hydra ones. He reminds himself that he’s a 100-year-old super soldier with blood on his hands—he’s capable of chatting with a teenager.

 

When Bucky returns to the chair, Shuri uses her gangly arms to push her body up and onto the counter where the vials were stationed mere minutes ago. Bucky’s eyes scan the room to find them being processed by a noiseless, sleek machine that he doesn’t care to try and comprehend.

 

“Where’s Captain Rogers?”

 

“Packing his bag.”

 

“Did you scare him away with your scowl?” she smirks.

 

He knows she’s joking, just taking a little jab, but that knowledge doesn’t prevent his mouth from turning downward.

 

“Yes, yes! That’s one!” she squeals, pointing at his face. “Have you considered trademarking it?”

 

Bucky snorts. “It has become my signature look of sorts.” They both laugh.

 

“So what’s the real reason he’s leaving?” she asks, hands fiddling with a glowing sphere the size of a thumbnail.

 

“I asked him to,” he whispers. Shuri’s face knots in confusion and she sets the kimoyo bead on the table.

 

Bucky sighs. “It could be ages before I’m healed. Hell, who knows if I’ll  _ ever _ be healed. The nightmares are worsening. I still don’t remember over half of my life outside of Hydra’s control. And Steve … he shouldn’t be here, he doesn’t need to endure this with me. Shuri,” he admits, gaze meeting hers. “All your work, could be for nothing.”

 

Without missing a beat, she replies, “Three things: One, I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve seen or what you’ve been through. Two, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, I’m a genius, so the chances of recovering your memories and stopping the nightmares are at higher odds than you’re allowing yourself to realize—it’s vaguely insulting really. And three, you have something I have seen most of my elders only dream to capture.” Bucky knows she’s referring to Steve. He bites his lip and waits for her to continue. “So again, as I mentioned, I’m a genius—but even I can’t begin to comprehend how you and the Captain have managed to bend the laws of space and time to be reunited. It’s remarkable.

 

“And if you can’t find comfort in numbers and probability, you should at least find it in you and Steve.”

 

Before she can spot the wetness threatening to spill, Bucky closes his eyes and takes an obnoxiously long inhale. Steve had told him that deep breaths were calming. As he goes to exhale, he feels a gentle pressure on his shoulder. He spots Shuri’s hand and relaxes.

 

His mouth remains open on the exhale. “I believe in Steve more than anything in this mad world...” Inhale.

 

“But?” Shuri presses.

 

“I don’t believe in myself.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the end credit scene in Civil War, Bucky is brought out of cryostasis, and Steve is there to greet him. As the ex-assassin struggles to reclaim his memories and navigate his path to recovery, Steve is willing to do whatever he can to ensure his best friend’s healing—even if that means leaving Wakanda. With enough stubbornness to fill the Hudson River, Steve wrestles with heartbreak and guilt, while Bucky fears he’ll never get better, he’ll never remember all that he was before Hydra—all that Steve believes him to be. But the two will eventually realize that in order to heal, you sometimes need your best friend (and soulmate) by your side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Dani Kjötkveðja for beta reading!
> 
> Fic-inspired fan art by Annika Pietsch will be posted with the final chapter.

**Wakanda**

 

**(Steve)**

 

The next day finds Bucky and Steve making the trek to the center of Wakanda’s metropolis. Bucky has a handful of appointments, one right after the other, with a group of doctors, a psychologist included.

 

He and Bucky remain silent as the elevator begins the climb to the 18th floor—the medical wing. When the doors slide open, Bucky and Steve both take a step forward to get off. But before Steve can get his other foot out, Bucky is there pressing a firm hand to his chest.

 

“I can do this alone,” says Bucky, using his disproportionate upper body strength to push Steve’s body back. Steve’s instincts take over and he reaches up to wrap his fingers around Bucky’s wrist.

 

“But you don’t—” Bucky’s arm retracts through the narrowing space. The doors close with a click. “Have to…” he finishes. The disappointment in his voice hangs heavy in the confined square area of the elevator. Steve pinches his eyes tight and blows hot air through his nose like a bull. He just needs space, Steve tells himself, he still loves you. His eyelids remain shut a moment longer, until he’s confident that tears won’t surface.

 

He regrets telling Bucky he’d leave. He feels like a stubborn child, but he just doesn’t want to. He just got Bucky back. Maybe he was foolish for thinking Bucky would find comfort in his presence. Maybe his motives are teetering on a fine line of selfless and selfish. Yes, he wishes desperately that Bucky would remember _more_ —but he’d give that hope up if he’d at least let him stay. They could rebuild what they were together. Something new, perhaps something even better.

 

The elevator dings and Steve realizes that he never selected another floor. Two men in traditional Wakandan garb eye him suspiciously upon entering.

 

“Morning,” he says, shuffling to the front corner of the elevator. “What floor?”

 

“27th,” answers the taller of the two. Steve’s partially gloved hand types the numbers into the keypad. Once their request has been registered, he makes sure they aren’t looking in his direction and dials in a second number that will take him to the king’s personal quarters following their exit.

 

Once he reaches T’Challa’s floor, the elevator ceases movement, but the doors don’t open. There’s motion from the ceiling and a screen barely the thickness of a sheet of paper descends. The black screen illuminates and Okoye appears.

 

“State your name and business.”

 

Okoye never fails to impress Steve. Her laser focus is always accompanied by the ability to be actively observant of the surrounding environment. She’s loyal to tradition—perhaps to a fault. And from what he’s seen, her hand-to-hand combat is unmatched. If there ever was a perfect soldier, it’s her. “Captain Rogers. Here to speak with King T’Challa.”

 

“Identification is required.” The elevator’s keypad rotates to reveal a fingerprint scanner. Steve presses his forefinger down and waits.

 

The back wall of the elevator drops to reveal another set of doors. They part to display a pair of Wakandan guards who acknowledge the Captain with no more than a sharp smack of the base of their spears to the glass floor. They turn in unison and march down the stretch of hallway. Steve follows and marvels at the way their footfalls are nonexistent in comparison to the clank that sounds every time the heels of his boots make contact with the ground.

 

Their exit replicates their arrival when they leave Steve at the entryway of the control room. Among the vast wall of screens monitoring every square inch of the city and countryside, stands T’Challa, front and center, with his back to Steve.

 

“Good morning, Captain.”

 

“Morning,” he replies. “Everything business as usual in Wakanda this morning?”

 

“Yes. Everything is, except…” T’Challa turns, gaze leaving the video grid to address Steve directly. “Your departure.” The king rises from the chair and beckons Steve to follow.

 

They enter a room to the left that’s lined with windows and flooding with natural light. Steve pauses to admire the traditional African art that decorates every nook and cranny that isn’t made of glass. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

 

Steve nods in agreement. “It is. Something the world could use more of.”

 

“You were an artist before a soldier?” T’Challa asks with genuine interest. Steve can’t help but smile as he takes a seat within arm’s length of the king.

 

“I was. Mainly sketches and paintings.”

 

“Do you miss it?”

 

Steve hesitates and looks down at his hands. The question makes his stomach turn and his head throb. It’s about more than art work and creation. It’s about his life before. Before the serum and the war; before the ice and the train; before he watched his best girl pass in her old age; and before he saw his best guy forget who he was.

 

He misses his art, yes, but he misses plenty of things more—like Brooklyn in the fall, Coney Island in the summer, his ma’s homemade chicken and dumpling soup in the winter, and the trees in Central Park in the spring. But beyond all of that, he misses the man that had his back through every season. A man that now seems pained by his presence.

 

Steve frowns mostly to himself and looks up, eyes still unable to meet T’Challa’s, so he lets them sweep over to the windows. Finally, he answers. “I miss a lot of things these days.”

 

“Captain,” T’Challa starts. His voice lower, more grave. “It is not wise for a king to get involved in the personal affairs of his people nor his friends, but I must ask. Are you and Barnes—”

 

“We are.” Steve pauses, trying to read T’Challa before continuing. “That’s not an issue, is it?”

 

T’Challa chuckles at Steve’s question. “Captain, as I assume you’ve already gathered, Wakanda has embraced all relationships for centuries.” Steve’s face softens. “As I’ve said before, you are both welcome and safe here.”

 

A shaky exhale escapes Steve’s lips. His face feels hot, but he tries to ignore it. He wants to say thank you, but he elects for a nod of understanding instead.

 

The king offers a warm smile in return. “My concern, Captain, is with your sudden departure.”

 

Steve’s eyes shift back to the floor. “Bucky asked me to leave.” His gut twists and his fists clench. “He doesn’t want me here.”

 

“You are a man of honesty, Steve, but I highly doubt that your presence is not wanted by him. His request must have a reason, yes?”

 

Steve doesn’t want to think about the reason or reasons Bucky has for not wanting him around, for wanting him to leave. He trusts the other man with his life, but there’s something in the pit of his stomach that won’t settle—won’t let him believe his best friend just doesn’t want him to worry. There has to be something _else_.

 

“He wants my focus to be on missions, not on him,” Steve admits. T’Challa nods in understanding. “He thinks I’ll worry.” T’Challa’s mouth turns up at that and he stands. Steve’s back straightens as he contemplates matching the king’s movements.

 

Once T’Challa reaches the wall of windows, he glances back at Steve before speaking. Their eyes connect briefly. “My father believed that time spent worrying was wasteful,” he tells Steve. “Although wise, I find this to be next to impossible when it comes to the people we care about. It is natural to be concerned about the wellbeing of our loved ones. Perhaps the Sergeant’s concern stems from elsewhere.”

 

Steve clears his throat. “I know this isn’t my place, and possibly not yours either, but would you do me a favor?” _As though he hasn’t already done so many, Steve thinks._

 

T’Challa waits, expression calm but sympathetic.

 

“Can you keep me updated on his progress?”

 

“Of course,” T’Challa responds. “With his permission.”

 

Steve extends his hand in thanks, and although he’s not hopeful for Buck’s permission, he manages a small smile. “Thank you. For everything,” he says.

 

“It is our pleasure,” replies T’Challa, both hands coming up to clasp Steve’s in a warm gesture. “You are always welcome here. We will take good care of him.”

 

Shortly after, Steve exits the room and weaves his way out of the king’s headquarters. When he hits the long corridor, the two fierce warriors who escorted him in are there to lead him out. He boards the elevator without a word and watches as the back wall drops back into place. Without much thought, his fingers reach for the keypad and dial in a floor selection.

 

The medical wing, not to Steve’s surprise, seems to be just as high-tech and advanced as the rest of the towering building. His desire to gather intel encourages him to explore, but right as his body presses forward, he spots Bucky walking in his direction.

 

**(Bucky)**

 

Bucky shakes his head when he sees a very broad and rather quizzical-looking Steve Rogers at the entrance of the medical wing. He had made certain that Steve didn’t follow him to the floor, but of course he assumed Steve would make his way there eventually. No amount of time, even decades and decades, could rid Steve of his nosey and determined nature.

 

When they make eye contact, Steve’s face gives way to a sheepish grin. Bucky chuckles to himself. He had planned on remaining stoic and a little cold, in hopes of further cementing his request for Steve’s leaving, but he thinks that ship has sailed—his nerves are shot from all the medical assessments. Right now, he just wants to enjoy the comfort and ease of Steve’s company. At least for another hour or so.

 

“You can never stay put, can you, Rogers?”

 

“It’s a gamble,” Steve quips.

 

“This is why we can’t have you moping around here while the medically-inclined population of Wakanda works to fix this,” he jokes, forefinger nudging his temple. Steve meets him the rest of the way, and Bucky slings his arm around Steve’s shoulder. “Come on, punk. Let’s go grab some lunch.”

 

Back at his hut, Bucky shuffles around the tiny kitchen. He doesn’t remember cooking much back in Brooklyn, but he somehow manages—and having a vegetable garden at his disposal helps, too. As he works, Steve sits on the bed and lets his gaze shamelessly follow Bucky’s form.

 

“Your ma would be shocked by this sight, Buck.”

 

He grunts, “I think she’d be shocked by a lot of things.”

 

Steve nods in agreement and rises from where he’s perched on the corner of the mattress. Bucky senses Steve’s solid presence moving closer and tries to stay focused on chopping the zucchini, but the goosebumps dotting his skin are distracting.

 

Once directly behind him, Steve whispers. “Can I?”

 

He nods and sets the knife down on the cutting board.

 

First, Steve’s thick arms link around his waist, followed by his front plastering to Bucky’s back. He releases a relieved sigh when Steve’s chin nestles itself into his shoulder.

 

“How did today go?” He knew Steve would ask, it was just a matter of when.

 

“Good, I think.”

 

“Hmm…” Steve mumbles into his shoulder.

 

He wants to offer Steve more, more good news, more information, more insight, but he just can’t. He doesn’t want to talk about it—the doctors, the tests, the outlook. He’s tired...and nervous none of it will work.  


Steve speaks into the curve of his neck, “I’m going to miss the hell out of you.” Bucky’s grateful for the minor subject change. And as Steve’s mouth lingers on his skin, he cocks his head to the side, subconsciously chasing Steve’s lips.

 

“I know,” says Bucky, his hand coming up to grip Steve’s biceps.

 

Steve chuckles lightly, “Did you just Star Wars reference me?”

 

Bucky shakes his head. “I wish I could say yes, but I have literally no clue what you’re talking about.”

 

“Well, old man,” Steve teases, “I’ll just have to teach you a few things the next time I’m here.”

 

Bucky releases his hold on Steve’s arm and turns to face him. “If you bring some of that booze from that god-like friend of yours—the one who can summon thunder—then you can teach me whatever you want.”

 

“You trying to get me tipsy, Sergeant? I’m technically your superior, I’ll have you know,” answers Steve, his body crowding Bucky against the counter.

 

“Aside from maybe an inch or two, you ain’t got nothing on me, pal.” Bucky smirks. He notices how Steve’s frame has grown straighter, and in turn, taller, in a matter of seconds. Suddenly he’s being coerced into an undeniable bear hug.

 

He wiggles in the embrace like a child trying to break free from a persistent and excessively loving relative, but he ultimately ends up giving in with a dramatic sigh. From Steve’s chest, he pipes up, voice muffled by Steve’s shirt, “So, we got a deal?”

 

“We sure do.”

 

After lunch, Steve’s phone gives a persistent buzz, notifying him that the quinjet has entered Wakandan airspace. With a twinge disappointment evident in their slow and rather lazy movements, he and Steve leave the serenity of his hut and head toward the city.

 

When Bucky spots Sam and Nat standing on the tarmac, he tugs on Steve’s hand, bringing them to a halt. Steve’s eyes are questioning and concerned.

 

“Stop it, Rogers. I’m fine,” he says.

 

“Then what is it, Buck?”

 

“Just…” He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to say goodbye again. But this is on him, he chose this. And as much as he wants Steve to stay, he can’t let him. He can’t allow him to see the disappointments that lie ahead.

 

“Buck?”

 

With his good arm, Bucky wraps his fingers around the back of Steve’s neck and tugs him down. Their lips meet in a bruising kiss. Before Steve can settle into it, and before he can take it any further, Bucky reluctantly breaks it with an exhale. As they breathe in each other’s air, both keep their eyes sealed shut and their foreheads pressed together.

 

“Tell me to stay and I’ll stay.”

 

“Captain America has more important things to do.”

 

“Nothing has ever been more important than you.”

 

Bucky gives a gentle shake of his head, his eyes opening. “You’re a sap.” Steve shrugs. “Come back when the world doesn’t need saving.”

 

“Geez, Barnes. You trying to get rid of me for good? We both know that’s never going to happen.” Steve jokes.

 

It’s Romanoff’s voice that pierces their bubble. “Come on, loverboy. We got somewhere to be,” she hollers.

 

This time, Steve is the one to lean forward. He gives Bucky’s mouth a quick peck and pulls away.

 

Bucky keeps his feet planted and watches Steve’s figure grow smaller. Natasha and Sam offer him a wave. He reciprocates. It’s hard to see them, to see the people that put their lives in jeopardy on his behalf, or rather at the request of Steve. They barely even know him—and gosh, if they knew every detail of his past, they’d have bailed long ago. He’s certain of it.

 

Just as he goes to turn and begin his journey back to his hut, he spots a thin and lanky figure cloaked in a shawl, tip-toe up to Steve. The figure slips something into his hand and whispers in a hurried fashion. From here, he’s unable to read Steve’s lips, but Bucky takes note of his surprised expression. Nevertheless, Steve accepts the object with apparent gratitude, and then continues the climb into the belly of the quinjet. When the shrouded individual turns to leave, the shall slips, revealing the ebony profile of a young girl.

 

“Shuri?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Dani Kjötkveðja for beta reading!
> 
> Fic-inspired fan art by Annika Pietsch will be posted with the final chapter.

**Bucharest, Romania**

 

**(Steve)**

 

Steve glances at the battered phone. It was pristine when Shuri gave it to him—a replacement for the one he had all but destroyed—but now the screen is shattered in the top left corner. He can still read the discreet text messages he eagerly awaits every day, but rarely receives. Today is no different.

 

With a sigh, he lets the screen fade to black and runs a calloused hand down his face, hoping to wipe the frustration away in the process.

 

He sighs once more, observing the state of his hands. Once the delicate and soft fingers of an artist, they are currently dotted with fading callouses—odd reminders of how the serum enhances his body’s healing process, allowing him to wear it down with little repercussion.

 

When Dr. Erskine injected him with the serum, his lifespan tripled. At 99, he still has so long to go. He only hopes that the next 150 years can eventually be spent alongside his best friend.

 

The door connecting his dingy motel room to the other swings open to reveal an equally exhausted Sam Wilson carrying a handful of granola bars in one hand, with two cups of coffee balancing in the other.

 

“Hey man. Want some breakfast?” asks Sam. “No promises it’ll taste good, but it was the best the gas station had to offer.”

 

Steve nods and reaches out with the empty hand, the other still clutching the cell phone.

 

“Heard anything?” Sam questions as he drops the snacks into his friend’s hand.

 

Steve shakes his head, keeping his lips drawn tight.

 

After spending the last year with Steve on underground missions, Sam can tell something is up just from his body language: face unmoving, gaze distant, shoulders slumped forward, and that hand, always clutching his phone. Sam wonders if Steve slept with it again, under his pillow or pressed tight to his chest—just in case.

 

“If it’s possible to recover his memories, you know Shuri will do it, right?”

 

“I do. I just…” Steve shakes his head and closes his eyes.

 

“You just what?” Sam says, crossing the room and sitting in the chair diagonal from the bed Steve was sitting on. “I know I’m no therapist, but man, you have to talk to me. Otherwise I’m taking back the shitty gas station granola bar and burnt coffee.”

 

Steve’s eyes open and a quiet laugh escapes his lips. Sam smirks. Steve takes a sip of the coffee and winces. “Yep, definitely burnt.”

 

Sam shrugs, but his face grows serious, remembering the topic at hand. “Talk, Rogers. Before Nat gets out of the shower and starts nagging me for being slow and you for be old _and_ slow.”

 

Steve gives Sam a sad smile.

 

“I just—I miss him, Sam. And I feel guilty.”

 

“Guilty? About what?”

 

“About everything. He went through hell without anyone knowing he was alive for seventy years, and now he’s afraid of disappointing me. You and Nat gave up your security to be fugitives. All of the Avengers are scattered across the globe, even the universe, because of my decisions. It isn’t going to end well, and that’s... that’s on me.”

 

“Bullshit, Steve.”

 

It’s Natasha. She slips through the open door, hair damp from the shower.

 

“You need to stop doing that. It’s creepy,” quips Sam.

 

“Get over it, Bird Boy.”

 

Steve moves to get up, but Nat is quick to shove him back down with a hand to his shoulder.

 

“As I was saying,” she says, eyes rolling from Sam back to Steve, “that’s bullshit.”

 

“She’s right.”

 

Nat continues, “He is alive and getting a second chance because of you. Half of the Avengers aren’t in prison cells because of you. We all made decisions, Steve. Some good, some bad. But it’s not on you.”

 

Sam points at Nat with a wagging finger. “What she said.”

 

“I–”

 

Before Steve can argue, a dull vibration sounds between his fingers and palm.

 

**Shuri’s Lab, Wakanda**

 

**(Bucky)**

 

Shuri dances around the broad expanse of the lab, testing out a new and improved pair of “sneakers.” She tiptoes, stomps, lunges, and glides across the floor as Sergeant Barnes chuckles from the other side of the room.

 

The “White Wolf” is sitting patiently as an array of sleek wires attached to his temples and chest work to acquire what Shuri calls “pertinent data in the recovery efforts of the broken white boy.”

 

Sometimes she’s a lot to take in, always brimming with new ideas and creations, her brain and mouth rarely taking a rest, but he had grown quite fond of her. Their relationship reminds him of—

 

“Becca?” he says, mostly to himself.

 

Shuri’s movements halt. “Who’s Becca?”

 

His eyes knit together, images flash behind his eyes: a little girl, a head shorter than him, giggling as they walked to the park. Steve’s there, too. He’s telling a joke.

 

“My sister. Her name was Becca. And St—”

 

“BREAKTHROUGH!”

 

Shuri’s excitement snaps him out of the flashback. She rushes over to the monitors surrounding his head, eyes shining and a broad grin stretching across the bottom half of her face.

 

“What was that?”

 

“A breakthrough. Were you not listening?”

 

Shuri types as the ex-assassin retells every detail of the memory he can recall. They had gone to the park to let Becca play on the swings. He and Steve sat in the grass; Steve had opened up his sketchbook to draw. He remembers admiring the way Steve’s long, but sure fingers gripped the pencil. He loved to watch Steve.

 

Shuri snickers, causing him to close his mouth.

 

“Please, do not let my sister’s immaturity deter you, Mr. Barnes,” says T’Challa as he strides into the lab. “Her bedside manner needs work.”

 

“Hey!” Shuri retorts.

 

“Continue, if you will,” says T’Challa, paying no mind to his sister.

 

Bucky swallows and nods. “I-I liked to watch Steve draw. It was the only time he seemed at peace with himself. I liked to see him… happy.”

 

“Your neurons are responding like fireworks. All from a single memory,” reports Shuri, her eyes never leaving the screen.

 

“Like fireworks on Steve’s birthday.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Steve’s birthday. He was born on the 4th of July.”

 

“Ah, yes, your country’s day of independence. You are correct, Sergeant. What would you and Steve do to celebrate his birthday?”

 

He closes his eyes and tries to imagine Steve and Brooklyn at the start of July, all heat and humidity trapped between the concrete buildings.

 

“Blue was his favorite color. He liked the blue fireworks best. And when the fireworks ended, we’d grab a cone from Del’s near his ma’s place before calling it a night.”

 

“And did you two call it a night, together?” asks Shuri, face torn between genuine intrigue and a curious fit of giggles.

 

“Shuri…” tuts T’Challa. But Bucky is unphased, still lost in his thoughts.

 

“It was too hot to sleep in the same bed, so we slept on the floor next to the open window. I-I remember him telling me he was going to try enlisting again the next morning. I got mad and went to leave, but he asked me to stay… It was his birthday. I couldn’t leave.”

 

His eyelids flutter open to reveal stormy gray eyes. T’Challa’s smile is sad, and he refrains from reaching out to comfort the noticeably lost man before him.

 

“I shall alert the Captain. He will be pleased to know that—”

 

“No.”

 

T’Challa hesitates, but decides to press, “No? Might I ask why?”

 

“I’m still not… right. He’ll only worry.”

 

“Mr. Barnes, he is your friend. And your recovery may take months, maybe even years.”

 

“Not yet. Please.”

 

Shuri glances at her brother, awaiting his response to the helpless plea.

 

“As you wish. But soon. I promised to keep Captain Rogers updated on your wellbeing, Sergeant Barnes. And lying does not befit a king. You understand?”

 

“Yes.”

 

With a curt nod, T’Challa escorts Bucky back to the comfort of his hut located along the east border of the dome. Although he has been offered a place to stay within the city, he has found solace in tending to the goats.

  
As soon as they’re out of earshot, Shuri opens up a new text and begins to type: **_He remembered his sister and your birthday today._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos welcome and appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Dani Kjötkveðja for beta reading!
> 
> Fic-inspired fan art by Annika Pietsch will be posted with the final chapter.

The rush of electricity courses through his limbs. Every nerve ending sizzles from overstimulation. His limbs twitch on their own accord with each pulse that threatens to simultaneously freeze and burn the skin from the inside out. He wants to scream, release the shriek of pain that’s throbbing between his ribs, but there’s something preventing his jaw from opening.

 

He makes a pathetic attempt to lift his arm from the cold metal of the chair—he’s pinned. He tries to do the same with the metal arm. Nothing happens. They’ve disabled it.

 

He considers opening his eyes. The soldier within encourages him to at least try and test the fear that’s currently paralyzing his lids. But he’s afraid to look, to face what’s happening. With his eyes clamped shut he can still cling to the slim chance that none of this is real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not—

 

The pain intensifies and his eyes fly open. His clouded gaze drifts down. His mouth is muzzled. His limbs encased in industrial-grade clamps. His chest exposed to a plethora of thick, black wires. 

 

A short, stocky man in a lab coat hesitates when he notices the soldier is alert.

 

“What are you waiting for? Do it!” Someone demands.

 

The doctor gives a jerky nod and reaches for something overhead—the halo. It begins to rotate, soundlessly spinning closer to his temples. He needs to get out of here before they try to dissolve anymore of his memories, of his identity, of his humanity. 

 

A feral growl builds from his abdomen. Men in tactical gear advance from the far wall, guns loaded and at the ready. He thrashes. There’s no finesse to his movements, just blinding rage. The restraints snap.

 

He shouldn’t have been able to break free, but his adrenhilen is too high to stop and question it. His body moves with determination. He swats the halo from his vision and wraps his flesh hand around the throat of the doctor until the man crumples to the floor from oxygen loss. He assesses the tight line of security and realizes he’ll need to reactivate the arm if he wants to get through them. His fingers pry the neutralizer from between the plates. Blood dots the metal, but he’s not sure whose it is. The arm hums as it recalibrates. 

 

Eight men surround him, their guns inching closer. But he can see it in their eyes, they’re scared of him, of his next move. He wants to laugh at their fear, the fear of the thing they’ve all had a hand in creating, but he can’t with the muzzle still strapped to his jaw. He reaches out for the gun that’s mere centimeters from his chest and bends the barrell. He tosses the weapon behind him and knocks out two Hydra soldiers in the process. Gun fire sounds and the man before him, now seemingly defenseless, staggers backward. He turns in the direction of the bullet, a bullet no doubt meant for him.

 

He lunges and tosses the shooter into the wall. The concrete cracks from the sheer force. His eyes spot the exit and his feet lead the way. There’s four men behind him, all armed, but he just wants out.

 

He races down a dimly lit and damp hallway. Along with the thud of his boots, the drip drop of blood hitting the floor echoes. He reaches a set of stairs just as a gloved hand stretches to grab his calf. He twists his leg out of the grasp and kicks. Even without visual confirmation, he knows that the heel of his boot just broke his attacker’s jaw. He feels like he's been running for miles, but finally, he sees a door at the top of a stairwell and somehow manages to pick up his pace. When he reaches the door, he twists the handle. The door shudders but remains closed. He jerks it again and again, head swinging back to keep tabs on the three bodies nearing. The door moans in protest as he throws his shoulder into it, still refusing to budge. 

 

In a matter of seconds, he’ll be cornered. He knows he can fight the men off, kill them if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. There’s so much blood now. The floor beneath him is slippery, his feet losing traction. His grip on the handle tightens as he falls to the floor in a heap, his own blood pooling around his legs.

 

He wants to scream again, but before he can tear the muzzle from his flesh, a familiar voice pierces his ears. 

 

“SERGEANT BARNES! Stand down. Now.”

 

He  _ knows _ that voice—no, it can’t be. They can’t be here. He’s trapped in an underground cell. He needs to get out before they drag him back to the chair, before they try to wipe away more of him.

 

The voice booms. “I said stand down.” He shakes his head in a flurry. He can’t tell what’s real, he can’t— “Now.”

 

There’s a hand on his shoulder and he jolts. He goes to swing the metal arm up to halt the foreign touch, but nothing happens. He looks down to see a gaping hole where metal would meet flesh, but there’s nothing there—just blood and torn wires. Tears fill his eyes in horror. His body goes rigid before it collapses. The hand continues to stroke his shoulder, slender fingers gentle on his sweat-slick skin.

 

“You can wake up now, White Wolf. You are safe.” Another voice, closer this time. “You are safe.” It’s a girl. 

 

He blinks and musters up enough courage to peer down at his shoulder again. He’s prepared to see it, to see the carnage, but he’s startled to find only delicate fingers caressing the blue fabric that’s wrapped methodically around his shoulder.

 

“White Wolf,” the girl repeats. “Do you know where you are?”

 

His vision is blurred, so he squints at the face attached to the soothing hand. “Shuri?”

 

She nods. “Can you tell me your name?”

 

He swallows. “Bucky.”

 

“Yes.” She smiles. “You had a nightmare and were sleepwalking. You made it all the way to the lab. But you are safe now, Bucky.”

 

He thinks at least twenty minutes have passed before he has the energy or the courage to speak, to ask the question that’s playing a continuous game of pinball within his skull.

 

Although the rest of his body is drenched in sweat, his lips stick together when he opens his mouth to speak. “Shuri,” he pauses and waits for her to look at him. She gives a soft hum. “Did I hurt anyone?” He whispers, hoping the Dora Milaje a few feet away can’t hear the desperation in his voice.

 

When Bucky sees her eyes sink, his stomach clenches.

 

Shuri sighs and then smiles. “You didn’t hurt anyone, Sergeant Barnes. Perhaps shattered a few doors that got in your way and alarmed the goats. But everyone is fine. You are too, yes?”

 

“I’ll pay to repair the damage,” he answers, ignoring her question and concern. 

 

“As far as I’m aware, you don’t have money. But, you can apologize to the animals. Maybe offer them some extra hay to win their affection back.”

 

Smiling tends to induce guilt nowadays, he’s caused too much pain and destruction to deserve the joy of a smile, but Bucky finds it hard not to in the company of the Wakandan princess.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he offers back.

 

Shuri retreats to the monitors, seemingly satisfied with his response. 

 

By the time Bucky’s heart has slowed to a rate that Shuri and the team of doctors deem acceptable, his sweat-doused shirt is close to dry and the feelings of a phantom limb are fading. He’s eager to get the go-ahead to leave. More than anything, he wants solitude and a shower—though he’ll have to settle for a tepid dip in the lake further down from his hut.

 

As if Shuri can sense his restlessness, she steps in front of him, blocking his exit path. “Your vitals are stable, and everything is in working order, but before you leave, we need to discuss potential triggers.”

 

“Triggers?”

 

Before Shuri can elaborate, the on-call psychologist interrupts. “Thoughts or events that may have triggered this episode. If we can narrow down a possible cause, we can address it and avoid any further setbacks in your recovery.” Bucky shakes his head. He’s spent. “We need your honesty, Mr. Barnes.”

 

“I-I don’t know.”

 

“Nothing stressful or emotionally compromising has occurred recently?” The psychologist presses. Bucky’s irritation rises.

 

“May I interject?” asks King T’Challa, his voice startling Shuri.

 

“Brother, would it hurt to announce your arrival from time to time?” she quips.

 

One side of T’Challa’s mouth tugs up in amusement. He pats his sister’s shoulder before continuing. “May I?” He asks, looking at Bucky. Bucky nods solemnly, well aware of what’s coming.

 

“Mr. Barnes’ companion departed Wakanda a few days ago,” says the king matter-of-factly. The psychologist nods and pecks away at a keyboard. “Captain Rogers’ departure was rather unexpected, though requested.”

 

Bucky’s face falls.  _ Steve must have told him—never could keep his mouth shut. _

 

“Bucky,” starts the doctor. “Do you think the Captain’s leaving could have contributed to your distress?”

 

Bucky harnesses all the patience he can, practicing the mindful breathing Okoye suggested in times of agitation and stress, but on the third or fourth breath, his unrefined Brooklyn character wins out and pipes up. “Yes, it’s possible—am I good to go?” He asks, feet already heading for the exit. He knows he’s being uncooperative, but his body is fried.

 

T’Challa's eyes fall. Bucky senses both disappointment and understanding in his gaze. “Let’s continue this in the morning.”

 

Before he can sprint out of the lab, Bucky stops in Shuri’s line of vision. “Thank you,” he says.   
  


“You’re welcome. Now go!” She says, shooing him with her hands. “May I suggest a bath with soap. You reek, White Wolf!” Her fingers come up to pinch her nose in mock disgust.

 

Bucky chuckles at her display. “Yeah, yeah. Maybe the goats will accept me as one of their own now.”

 

“Ugh. If only.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Dani Kjötkveðja for beta reading!
> 
> Fic-inspired fan art by Annika Pietsch will be posted with the final chapter.
> 
> Side note: I lied. Explicit scenes happening in Chapter 8! (I'M SO SORRY FOR LYING.)

**Bucharest**

 

**(Steve)**

 

It’s been three days since Shuri sent him a text. The last one had been an encouraging update, but he’s itching for another. Give him an inch and he’ll push for a mile—that’s how Steve operates, especially when it comes to Bucky Barnes. But no matter his desire for new news, nor the ache in his bones or the yet-to-fade bruises, Steve’s feeling rather chipper from the combination of a mission completed and the knowledge that Bucky’s mind and memories are indeed on the mend.

 

Steve and Sam are currently collecting their gear that’s scattered around the seedy motel room while Natasha gathers intel for their next stop: Warsaw. As Steve zips up his pack, he mutters an old tune to himself: “Happy Days Are Here Again” by Benny Meroff. He remembers his mom, Sarah, waltzing around to it whenever she would fix him and Buck a snack after school. She would always try to get Steve to dance with her, but he declined, worried he’d make a fool of himself with his bent spine and lack of coordination. Bucky, on the other hand, was always eager to impress both Sarah and Steve. Gosh had he loved watching Bucky dance. Always a charmer with his mom, and smooth on his feet.

 

“Quit your humming.” Sam shakes his head.

 

“Oh,” Steve stops. “I didn’t realize…”

 

Sam chuckles. “Seriously, man. What’s got you so happy?”

 

Steve’s grateful for comrades like Sam and Nat. Although they tease Steve tirelessly for his “old man” ways, it’s comforting to have friends who get it more than most.

 

“It’s the text, isn’t it?” Steve turns away from Sam and wills himself to not let the heat in his chest rise to his face. “Man, that text is old news.”

 

His head whips around to stare down Sam. “Old news? Why, did you hear something new?” Steve eagerly questions.

 

Sam holds his hands up and laughs. “Woah, slow down there, pal. I’m just yanking your chain.”

 

Before Steve can retaliate, Natasha enters the room with her suave-meets-business swagger.

 

“All right, boys. There’s reason to believe Hydra has a base beneath the main railway station in Warsaw. If we leave shortly, we’ll get there in under two hours and land right after the station shuts down public transport for the night.” Steve nods as Natasha continues. “We’ll need to reload and refuel the—Steve?” She questions, an amused tone lacing her voice. “What’s got you blushing?”

 

Steve’s face grows hotter. He coughs. “I think I might be coming down with something.”

 

Sam howls with laughter. “You really going to try the sick card on us? That’s just an insult, Rogers.”

 

“Honestly, Steve,” sing-songs Nat. “You want me to believe that your super serum isn’t a match for the common cold? My psyche is wounded.”

 

Steve refrains from cracking under their taunts and lets a traditionally stoic, Captain America expression grace his face. He clears his throat. “Warsaw. Reload and refuel. We should get going.”

 

Sam and Nat smirk at one another before following Steve out of the motel room and to the nearest stairwell.

 

“He’s got it bad for Barnes,” Sam whispers. Natasha nods.

 

**Warsaw**

 

“Sam, there’s at least four armed guards up on the roof. South corner is dark. Keep an eye out for a sniper,” reports Steve.

 

Sam’s voice cuts through the earpiece with a slight crackle. “On it.”

 

From Steve’s viewpoint on the ground, he watches as Sam zips around the station in a blur, silently preparing to attack from behind. He can’t hear or see Natasha, but he’s certain she’s scoping out the best entry point. To minimize the risk of detection, Steve decided that Nat and Sam would remain outside of the building—Nat on ground level monitoring the hacked security cameras and Sam in the air. Although he knows they both wanted to challenge Steve’s orders, he is grateful for their understanding. If one person was going anywhere head-first, it would be him. Always him. Not because he has a death wish, but rather because he is least likely to end up dead after a mission. Steve couldn’t use that argument when he resembled a ragdoll with a blond mop atop his head, but now his genetic makeup matches his spirit.

 

“Enter from west corridor and head up to the 14th floor,” says Natasha.

 

“Got it,” he replies, feet carrying him toward the building with a speed that would make others dizzy. He enters the stairwell with as little noise as possible. Once he’s certain that it’s clear, he starts climbing the stairs.

 

He reaches the door to the 14th floor and pushes forward, causing the door to release an annoyed creak as he slips through. Just past the threshold, Steve senses a vibration. Confused, he crouches down and lays a hand on the cement to verify that the floor isn’t moving. A second vibration pulsates, but this time it’s trapped between his hip and thigh. His phone, he realizes. He fumbles with his utility belt, attempting to free the cell phone that’s continuing to buzz within its zippered confines. It has to be Shuri, he thinks. His mind is quick to spiral into worry. He tries to bargain with himself, but the fact that Shuri has only ever sent sporadic texts and never called before causes his gut to swoop and his hands to quake with anxiety. By the time he manages to pull the zipper open halfway, the buzzing has ceased. Steve sighs disappointedly. As he yanks the phone free, it pings with the notice of a voicemail.

 

“Steve, are you in? There’s movement outside.” Nastasha questions.

 

Steve nods to himself in acknowledgement and turns his attention back to the device. He just needs a minute to check in with Shuri, to see what’s so pressing that she elected to call him unannounced. He needs to know if Bucky is OK. He taps the play button and brings the phone up to his free ear.

 

“Something has happened. Bucky is fine, he’s resting now, but he had a fairly violent nightmare. No one is hurt and I believe this is still just part of the healing process, but I think this one could have been avoided. I spoke with the psychologist, and we think he could have been triggered by your leaving—”

 

Nat’s hurried voice fights for his attention in the other ear. “Steve, get out of there. I spot approximately nine agents headed your way carrying what appears to be a high-grade explosive,” she reports.

 

Steve can hear his teammate’s voice, urgency evident in her tone, but his head isn’t processing what she’s saying. Without acknowledging Nat, his attention switches back to the ongoing voicemail.

 

“These episodes of PTSD are inevitable, but from what we’ve gathered, we think this was set off by the stress of your departure…”

 

He caused it. Steve was the reason for Bucky’s nightmare. Steve triggered Bucky into a panic. Nausea and anger rise from the pit of his stomach up to the broad expanse of his chest. He swallows and pulls the phone away from his face. His fist tightens around it; the glass screen shatters from the pressure.

 

“ROGERS!” Natasha’s voice bellows. Steve jerks, readjusting to his surroundings. His eyes are stinging. He drops the phone, letting it clatter onto the concrete. When he reaches up to wipe away the moisture, he notices that his palm is bleeding. Before he has time to wipe it on his pants, Nat yells again, even louder this time. “Steve! Get out of there—”

 

In mere seconds, all of Steve’s senses ignite. This time, it isn’t his phone vibrating, nor the floor. It’s the building. An explosion erupts and flings the doors open with a resounding bang. The intensity from the blast throws his body up and back against the far wall. When his back meets the crumbling concrete, he feels and hears a loud pop emanate from his right shoulder. He wraps his left hand around to the other side, attempting to yank the joint back into place. He senses movement behind him and turns to see the crack from where his back hit is starting to splinter up toward the ceiling. As chunks of concrete begin to rain down, Steve positions the shield above his head and folds his limbs in. He has just enough time to signal to Nat and Sam: “Building is collapsing. No exit in sight. I'm ordering both of you to vacate the area immediately.”

 

Sam is the first to reply. “Not a chance, Cap. We aren’t leaving without you.”

 

“Get in the jet now. That’s an order, Sam.” Steve’s voice strains. He tries to balance his breathing, conserve oxygen, but the air quality is dwindling by the second, and there’s splotches of black scattering his field of vision. He tries to keep his eyes open and alert, but he’s losing consciousness as the concrete continues to barrel down. The chaotic noise surrounding him from every side is muffled now and his muscles are going lax. As his eyes fall shut, Natasha’s voice is the last thing to reach his ears.

 

“Stay where you are, Steve.” He hears her say. “We’re coming to…”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Dani Kjötkveðja for beta reading!
> 
> Fic-inspired fan art by Annika Pietsch will be posted with the final chapter.
> 
> Side note: Explicit scenes coming with the final chapter!  
> Second side note: I may write an epilogue. TBD.

**Wakanda, Following the Nightmare**

 

**(Bucky)**

 

Once excused from the lab, Bucky bolts in the direction of the east side of the dome. When he reaches his sanctuary, he pauses momentarily to pat the sleepy, wandering goats on the head—quietly hoping to communicate an apology. As he continues walking, he bypasses his hut all together and darts to the lake. He assumes it’s an hour or two after midnight with the way the moon hangs in the sky, stars plentiful, casting a glow across the still water. Bucky strips out of his clothes and toes off his sandals, leaving himself bare except for the blue wrap encasing his shoulder. 

 

His big toe grazes the water and he sighs in relief. His heartbeat has slowed significantly, but his head and chest are still tight. Bucky slinks into the water, letting the clay seep between his toes. The chill of the clay forces him to be present, pulling his mind back from its wandering momentum. Once he’s neck-deep, he lets his body’s buoyancy carry his weight up so he’s floating on the surface of the lake.

 

As the water fills his ears, dulling the night-time sounds of Wakanda, he allows his eyes to slip shut. His mind is a jumbled mess of disappointment and shame and exhaustion—but the advice he’s been given during the first session with the psychologist shoves its way to the front of his skull: find a memory that brings you joy or peace, and replay it over and over again.

 

The memory he manages to recall is one that not even Hydra had the capabilities to destruct. The memory is wholesome and pure—the memory of his and Steve’s first date.

 

_ He had wanted it to be special and undeniably romantic. After pulling a double shift at the docks, he stopped by Raphael’s, the italian place on the corner of Bedford Avenue near the bridge, to make a reservation. But when he told the receptionist his name, she laughed and told him he’d need to put a deposit down if he wanted a table. With plan A scrapped in a disappointed huff, a plan B was quickly devised: redecorate his apartment to resemble that of a five-star, or at least four-star, restaurant. With three hours left before Steve was told to show up, Bucky rushed to the corner store for candles and a table cloth, and made a final stop at his ma’s to borrow two wine glasses. _

 

_ “Buck?” Steve called from the doorway, not bothering to knock. Bucky jolted upright from where he was hunched over the stove, stirring the bubbling sauce. He smoothed his hair back and checked his reflection in the glass of the window. “Where are you?” _

 

_ Bucky cleared his throat. “In the kitchen!” He twirled the single rose between his fingers, eager for Steve’s entrance.  _

 

_ As Steve entered the kitchen, he smiled, blue eyes dancing around at the sight before him. “Wow,” he breathed out. “Buck, you didn’t have to do all this.” _

 

_ Bucky moved forward, presenting the rose to Steve. “I, uh, I wanted it to be special.” Steve smiled and wrapped his fingers around the rose. _

 

_ “Just one?” Steve joked. “Do you give a rose to all the ladies, Barnes?” _

 

_ Bucky wracked his brain for a witty response, but settled for the truth instead. “No, Rogers. Just you.” _

 

Bucky can still envision the blush that covered Steve’s cheeks for the remainder of the night—whether from a tad too much of the wine Bucky had nicked from his ma’s cabinets or from the continuous compliments he couldn’t keep from vocalizing. And although the night had been far from perfect: the tomato sauce had been burnt, the heat in his apartment stopped working halfway through their meal, and Bucky’s downstairs neighbor wouldn’t quit practicing his clarinet—nothing matter when Steve was before him. He was so transfixed by his best friend, his oldest friend who was becoming his everything.

 

With a contented sigh, Bucky lowers his floating body back into the water and wades to the lake’s edge. He’s downright drained, but the idea of getting out and heading to bed makes his skin itch. Why did he ask Steve to leave, he thinks. Why couldn’t he just admit that he needed him.

 

**In The Air**

 

**(Steve)**

 

Steve’s eyelids flutter open. He’s greeted by the cold, dark gray ceiling of the quinjet. When he goes to turn his neck, attempting to assess his surroundings, his head throbs in protest. He tries to bring his hand up to cradle his skull and check for wounds, but his wrists are strapped down to the cot he’s stretched out on.

 

“What the hell?” He tries again. “Nat? Sam? What’s going on?”

 

“What’s going on he asks? Well,” starts Sam, “you were seconds away from being crushed by a building, but Nat and I saved your ass.”

 

Sam comes into Steve’s limited view, Natasha close behind, leaving the jet on autopilot.

 

“Let me out of this, please?” He gives a lackluster shake.

 

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Steve. You might get distracted again. Let the plane crash because of a text message or voicemail…” Nat holds out Steve’s phone. It’s on the brink of falling to pieces. “I found this in the rubble. It’s seen better days.”

 

Steve breaks the restraints with a barely noticeable grimace and reaches for the phone. He sighs and lets his head fall back against the thin cot with a dramatic thud.

 

“You almost bit the dust, man.” Steve looks at Sam and swallows. By the glum expression on his friend’s face, he feels the staggering weight of what happened, what almost happened. Sam genuinely thought he was going to lose Steve.

 

Steve sits up and clasps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sam. You too, Nat,” he says, eyeing Natasha. “I got distracted. I was afraid that Buck—”

 

“You can’t be out there,” Natasha interjects, cutting Steve off. “Not right now, at least.” He nods solemnly. “We’re heading to Wakanda. I don’t care if Barnes wants you there or not.”

 

Before he can respond, Nat is turning on her heel and striding toward the cockpit. Sam shakes his head and laughs.

 

“You really scared us, Steve.”

 

Steve nods and frowns. “I know.”

 

“Do me a favor, will ya? Figure out this shit with Barnes.” Sam tries to smile, but there’s a sense of worry that lingers in his eyes.

 

“You got it.” Steve agrees. He reaches out his hand and waits for Sam to shake it. Sam chuckles at the formality of it all, but does it anyway. “So,” Steve says, “Does he know I’m coming back?”

 

“Pretty sure the entire country of Wakanda knows, man. And the king is involved now, thanks to Nat, so if he doesn’t, he’ll find out soon enough.” Sam’s laughter echoes through the jet. He pats a startled Steve on the back before he leaves to return to the cockpit.

 

“Great,” Steve grunts out.

 

**Shuri’s Lab, The Next Day**

 

**(Bucky)**

 

Bucky’s appointment isn’t for another 43 minutes, but he couldn’t stand to be alone another second. That’s why he’s hanging out in Shuri’s lab, currently playing a game of solitaire on a spare computer.

 

“That computer has the ability to translate hundreds of dead languages and build blueprints for vibranium towers, and you’re using it to play a dull and highly unchallenging game,” Shuri remarks, shaking her head.

 

“Shush,” Bucky snaps. “Some of us were born with brawn instead of brains.”

 

Heavy and determined footfalls disrupt the hum of the machines within the lab. Bucky and Shuri both look up from their screens, faces twisting in curiosity. “Shuri!” hollers T’Challa. Shuri ducks down, purely from reflex. The king’s tone is cut-throat and dry, void of all warmth.

 

Bucky’s eyes flick over to Shuri. He grimaces on her behalf. He’s reminded of his mother and her tirades whenever he would leave his room a mess. By the time he realizes he’s recovering another memory, T’Challa has reached the heart of the lab and is hot on Shuri’s heels—completely ignorant to Bucky’s presence. Not wanting to break up the family dispute, he settles back and watches. 

 

“Shuri, how could you?” The king all but yells. Shuri shrugs with feigned innocence. “You disregarded all protocol. You broke Sergeant Barnes’ trust.” Bucky’s eyebrows raise. “And now, now Captain Rogers is recovering from a building collapse.”

 

Bucky surges upright. “He’s what?”

 

T’Challa’s rage settles when he finally notices the recovering soldier is even in the room. He exhales and moves toward Bucky to rest a hand on his shoulder. “He’s going to be OK. The serum will have a few more broken bones than usual to heal. But yes, he was trapped in a train station when it collapsed from an explosion. I’m sorry you found out this way.”

 

There’s shock etched across the princess’ face, but right now her confusion is winning out. “I’m glad he’s OK, but how is a building collapse my doing?”

 

“He was on the 14th floor, in the middle of a mission when you called. Natasha said he was distracted by something, and your voicemail was left just before the blast.” Shuri’s face drops.

 

Bucky’s still standing, shoulders tense and teeth clenched. “Voicemail?” he asks.

 

“I, I was sending Steve updates on your status,” Shuri explains, turning to Bucky. “They were just texts at first, alerting him on your recovered memories, but then you had that nightmare after he left...and I thought...”

 

“It  _ was _ you. You slipped him a phone before he left on the jet.” Bucky lets out a long, hard sigh.

 

“White Wolf, I’m truly sorry. I thought it was best that he know. He cares about—”

 

“That’s just it—he cares. Too damn much.” Bucky returns to the chair and slumps forward, face burrowing into the palm of his open, upturned hand. “He’s going to be OK?” He asks, voice helpless and muffled.

 

“Yes,” T’Challa responds, coming to sit next to him. “Sergeant, we betrayed your trust, and for that, I am greatly sorry. But…” he pauses and waits for Bucky to look up. “I do think Steve’s return will be for the best. As for Shuri, allow me to handle that.”

 

Bucky smirks at T’Challa’s weightless threat and peers over at Shuri with a heavy heart. He knows she meant well, he does, but damn this girl and her fiery personality. Although she’s much smarter and much healthier, she’s got the passion and guts of a young Steve. With that comparison being made, it’s then that Bucky’s head catches up with what he’s just been told by T’Challa: _Steve’s returning. He’s coming back?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos are beyond appreciated! Comments are utterly welcome! Thanks for the love.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST CHAPTER! This one contains smut (finally) and some gorgeous fan art!
> 
> Side note: I may be adding an epilogue to this story in the next week or so. I think they deserve it (and you do too).
> 
> And again, thank you to Dani Kjötkveðja for beta reading!

**Wakanda**

 

**(Steve)**

 

When the quinjet touches down in Wakanda, Steve hesitates to deplane, stomach churning at the rather promising potential of facing an angry, one-armed super soldier. But as the back of the jet lowers, Steve is surprised to see only the royal family and the Dora Milaje awaiting their arrival. As Steve stands to exit, Natasha and Sam vacate the cockpit and come to stand at his back. Sam puts a comforting hand on his shoulder and Nat speaks, voice lowered for only their ears to hear.

 

“Talk to him, Steve. He needs you as much as you need him. You both deserve to rest. Together.” Steve glances back and gives her a small, sad smile in return.

 

The trio begins their short descent out of the jet and onto the tarmac. Once they reach T’Challa, Steve extends his hand, but the king disregards it and moves in for a hug. “It’s good to see you, Captain. I’m grateful you are here, and alive, no less.”

 

Steve embraces T’Challa and smiles into the hug, humbled by his display of concern and friendship. The queen moves in next, followed by a hesitant Shuri.

 

She opens her mouth, only to close it. Steve shakes his head and pulls her in. “I’m fine. Thank you for keeping me updated, Shuri, even if it got us both in a bit of trouble.” He laughs under his breath.

 

Once the greetings are finished, T’Challa notices the moon rising over the horizon and suggests they call it a night. The king must sense the worry that washes over Steve’s face because he ushers everyone but Steve on their way.

 

“I asked Sergeant Barnes if he wanted you to stay with him in his quarters or a separate space in the tower. Although he’s most certainly angry with your most recent actions,” T’Challa pauses, noticing how Steve’s cheeks are tinged pink. “He was adamant that you make your way to his hut.”

 

“I’m relieved to hear that,” he sighs. “Any advice, from a friend to a friend?”

 

The king releases a breathless chuckle. “He’s pigheaded, but so are you. Be persistent, Captain. Remind him that you are his friend first and foremost, and that your duties to your country, to this world, fall well after that.”

 

Steve sucks in a breath and nods. They part ways and Steve heads in the direction of Bucky’s hut, T’Challa’s words playing like a mantra over and over in his head.

 

**Wakanda, Bucky’s Hut**

 

**(Steve)**

 

As he approaches the hut, Steve spots Bucky standing in the entryway, arms crossed, body leaning against the frame. His eyes catch Steve’s and refuse to let go—but Bucky puts an end to the silent staredown within moments.

 

“You just couldn’t keep your nose out if it, could you?” Steve huffs and continues his advance. Bucky pushes off the door and retreats back into the hut without another word. Slightly confused, Steve picks up his pace and jogs the rest of the way.

 

When Steve enters, he notices that everything in the hut is just as he remembers, except the bed that’s still made. He wonders if Bucky hasn’t been sleeping since the nightmare, since he left. He wants to ask but decides against, not looking to start a fight minutes after his arrival.

 

“You’re lucky to be alive, Steve.” Bucky’s voice startles Steve. His face is shrouded by the darkness of the tiny kitchen.

 

“I know.”

 

“You know? Not good enough, Steve. You could have died,” Bucky yells. “And all because you couldn’t let me go.”

 

That makes Steve’s blood pressure rise. He moves into the kitchen. “Let you go? Why in the hell would I ever let you go?”

 

Bucky shakes his head in disbelief and backs up to the sink, free hand gripping the counter. “Because, Steve...Because you have more important things to worry about than my busted up head and broken body. Because you’re Captain America and the world deserves your saving more than I do.” Bucky’s voice catches at the end, and Steve scowls, not at Bucky, but at his words. He wants to punch the wall, but he’s fairly certain the hut will collapse if he does. He starts to pace, but is quick to realize that the kitchen is far too compact for his long strides. He comes to an abrupt halt in front of the other man, eyes wild, but determined.

 

“It’s your turn to listen to me now, Buck.” Bucky’s jaw is clenched, but he gives Steve his attention. Steve spots a tear about to spill from the corner of his best friend’s eye and reaches up to catch it. Bucky’s hand lets go of the countertop and he moves to catch Steve’s wrist. Bucky holds Steve’s hand still and presses it against his face. Even with his blood boiling, Steve can’t stop himself from craning his neck down to lay a kiss to where their hands are connected.

 

Bucky loosens his grip, letting Steve’s hand fall to his side. He sighs. “Before becoming Captain America, I was your friend. And you were my everything. I could never admit it then, but I needed you. Then the serum happened and I could finally be the one to protect you, but I failed. I let you—” Bucky moves forward to stop Steve from continuing, but he raises a hand. “No, let me finish.” Bucky takes a step back and waits. “I couldn’t save you. I thought I lost you forever. The one person that made me feel like I was enough before any of this,” he says, gesturing to his body, “was gone. And now you’re here, and you’re safe, and you’re real. And every second we’re separated, I’m afraid I’m going to lose you again. I know you said you don’t want me here, but here is where I need to be. I’m so tired, Buck. So tired of fighting and never getting the chance to just be. They can take away the shield and the uniform and the serum, and I’ll still be enough. Because without all of that, I’m still your best guy, Buck. I’m still Bucky Barnes’ best friend.”

 

When Steve finishes, Bucky moves away from the sink and Steve, and pads over to the bed to sit. “My best guy, huh?” Steve knows he’s trying to lighten the mood, but there’s a tremble to his voice. “Did you rehearse that?”

 

Steve smiles gently. “No… I mean, kind of? I asked T’Challa for advice.”

 

Bucky stares in utter amusement, eyes still wet. “You asked the Black Panther, the king of Wakanda, for relationship advice?” Steve gives a weak shrug. They both break into a fit of laughter, despite the tension.

 

When their laughter settles, Steve moves to the foot of the bed where Bucky’s sat and lowers to his knees before him. He looks up at Bucky before whispering into the silence, “Buck, let me stay? I need and want to be here, for you and for myself.”

 

“I don’t want to argue anymore, Steve. I just…”

 

“What, Buck?”

 

“I need to feel you. Please.” Steve all but chokes.

 

“A-are you sure?” Varying waves of emotions wash over him. He’s simultaneously surprised and hesitant and eager. “I know these last few days have been a lot…” He tries to be rational even though he wants nothing more than to lay down with the man before him.

 

Bucky covers Steve’s hands with his where they’re resting on his thighs. “Me, I’m fine. Now you, you almost died under a concrete building—”

 

It’s just like Bucky to make a joke, bury his feelings beneath a wisecrack so he doesn't have to be vulnerable, but Steve isn’t having any of that. “Seriously, Buck. Are you sure?”

 

Bucky nods yes.

 

“Tell me what you need then.”

 

Bucky closes his eyes before speaking. “To be in control of my body and mind. To know that you’re real and you’re alive, and I’m not on my own. If you ever di—”

 

“I’m here, Buck. I’m here.” Steve assures him.

 

“Then let me make take care of you just like before. Let me make love to you, Steve.”

 

Steve’s eyes grow dark and he surges up to kiss Bucky on the mouth. The kiss is hard and persistent as Steve attempts to convey everything he’s been holding back into a single display. Before he can pull back for air, he’s being spun around and pushed down onto the bed. Bucky smirks down at him, their positions reversed.

 

“Nice try, Rogers. Like I said, I’m taking care of you. You got it?”

 

Steve’s mouth is parted and he’s panting a little. “Got it,” he salutes, causing Bucky to chuckle.

 

Steve shimmies up the bed and waits eagerly for the other man to follow. But Bucky has other plans.

 

He starts at the very base of Steve’s body and works to strip him bare. Following the removal of each item of clothing, from his boots to his gloves, he brushes his lips against the newly exposed skin. Steve trembles from the intimacy of it all, mesmerized by Bucky’s patience and care. By the time he’s done, Steve’s skin is covered in goosebumps and his cock is hard, curving up toward his belly.

 

Bucky’s eyes rake over him, unashamed. “I will never get tired of this sight, Stevie.”

 

In a weak attempt to cover his rising blush, Steve pushes half of his face into a pillow that smells like Bucky.

 

Bucky tuts, “No hiding tonight. I want to hear and see everything.” Steve feels the blood rush to his neglected cock. Bucky’s spent far too long hiding—hiding their love in the 30s, hiding from the government, and now hiding from his healing. Steve isn’t going to deny him a damn thing.

 

Steve turns his head and lets his eyes bore into his partner’s. “You deserve the world,” he whispers with absolute certainty. Bucky shakes his head, but doesn’t try to argue. Instead, he starts to work on ridding himself of his clothes single-handedly.

 

“Hey, let me?” Steve offers.

 

Bucky nods and moves his hand away from the hem of his tank top. Steve smiles and slips both hands under the shirt, letting his palms skim up to brush over Bucky’s chest, causing him to hiss in pleasure. Satisfied with the response, he runs his hands back down and lifts the garment up and over Bucky’s head. Although Bucky’s well-defined chest deserves hours of admiration, he’s far too impatient right now and goes to tug at the tie that’s keeping Bucky’s thin, cotton pants up around his hips. As the waistband loosens, Steve notices that he’s not wearing any underwear. He licks his lips. Bucky smirks and wiggles the rest of the way out of his pants. He kicks them to the side and shuffles back to his position in front of Steve.

 

Although a genuine struggle, Steve peels his eyes away from Bucky’s groin and looks to remove the last piece of clothing on Bucky—the wrap that’s slung around his shoulder and neck.

 

Steve looks to Bucky for permission. Once he receives a gentle nod, Steve presses a quick kiss to Bucky’s neck and lets his fingers tug at the vibrant, sapphire blue material. The wrap starts to fall open, revealing the scarred flesh of Bucky’s shoulder. When he pulls his lips away from Bucky’s pulsing neck, he notices that his gaze is avoiding the sight of his exposed flesh. Steve reaches with his other hand to grip Bucky’s chin. He guides his face to mirror his.

 

“Buck,” he breathes into his partner’s mouth. “You’re beautiful.” Bucky’s eyes flutter shut and he tries to move away again, but Steve refuses to relent. “No. Look at me.” He demands, Captain voice seeping through.

 

“Steve,” he huffs.

 

“Look.”

 

“I can’t, Ste—”

 

“Just look at me, Buck.” His voice softer this time. Slowly, his gaze returns to Steve’s. “You’ve been to hell and back, probably twice, and somehow, somehow you’re still the kindest soul I’ve ever met. If that’s not beautiful, I don’t know what is. Inside and out, Bucky Barnes. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

 

Without another word, Steve lets the wrap fall completely from Bucky’s shoulder. He gathers it in his hand and lays it with care on the bedside table. “Now,” he says, eyes dancing. “Where’s your lube? I know you’ve got a stash in here somewhere.”

 

Bucky gives a startled laugh. “Eager, Rogers?”

 

Steve doesn’t even try to pretend and just nods. “In the drawer.”

 

Steve scrambles back to the bedside table to open the the drawer in search of the bottle. Once in hand, he smiles triumphantly and pops the top. When he proceeds to pour some out, Bucky reaches out and snaps the cap on the bottle shut before any liquid has the chance to hit his open palm.

 

“Not so fast, buddy. I’ll have the honors.” Bucky shuffles back and taps Steve thighs, encouraging him to spread out. He does so willingly.

 

Bucky opens his hand and waits. Steve realizes he wants the lube. Instead of coating Bucky’s fingers, Steve reaches for Bucky’s cock and pours lube over it, hand twisting until he’s slick from base to tip. Bucky bites his lip and throws a glare, lacking all heat, his way. Steve gives a satisfactory smirk, then squeezes a generous amount onto Bucky’s fingers.

 

His legs fall wider as Bucky’s hand moves down. With hooded eyes, he watches as Bucky leans in and kisses his inner thigh. Eventually, Bucky’s lips latch onto the soft skin and he hums. Steve squirms. While he’s distracted by the sensation, Bucky works his index finger into Steve, causing him to curse. He can’t help but notice how Bucky grows bolder with each whimper and gasp that he coaxes out of his mouth. Before Steve can process it, a middle finger is entering alongside Bucky’s index finger. When he starts to scissor them, Steve licks his lips at the burn from the stretch. It’s almost too much, too fast when a third finger enters, but suddenly Bucky is curling his fingers up and hitting the bundle of nerves inside him. He jolts.

 

“I’m ready, Buck. Need you.” He breathes out, legs giving a gentle quake.

 

“Okay, I got you.” Bucky says, crooking his fingers one more time for good measure before pulling them out.

 

He shuffles up the bed and brings his hips closer to Steve’s. His fingers move to wrap around one of Steve’s legs and he lifts it to rest on his shoulder. Steve catches Bucky’s gaze and reaches for his cock. “Can I?”

 

“All yours,” says Bucky, tone cocksure. Steve strokes it a few times and then starts to guide it into him. He can’t help the way his breath hitches when the tip passes the first ring of muscle. “God, I missed this.”

 

Bucky bends his torso forward so he can capture Steve’s lips in a kiss. His tongue pushes past Steve’s lips and licks into the wet heat with a groan. As they kiss, Buck inches his hips forward. When his groin is flush against Steve’s pale skin, they break the kiss.

 

Steve gasps and looks up at Bucky’s face in disbelief, unable to truly comprehend that they’re here, together. That’s when he notices the tears threatening to fall from the corners of his partner’s eyes. He reaches up to catch them, but Bucky’s eyes fall shut and he exhales. It sounds like relief.

 

“God, Steve,” he breathes. “You feel like home.”

 

Steve is desperately trying not to cry now, trying not to start sobbing like he wants to after years of being nothing but strong. He knows he can with Bucky. He can always be vulnerable with him, but right now, right now he just wants to feel all that Bucky is willing to give him. In hopes of keeping the tears at bay, he lifts his head off the pillow and starts pressing featherlight kisses to Bucky’s face, first his closed eyelids, the salt from his tears meeting his tongue, followed by his narrow nose and sharp jaw.

 

Bucky opens his eyes and smiles. “I thought I was supposed to be the one taking care of you…” he trails off.

 

Steve kisses him again, just below his ear. “You are,” he pants, tongue darting out to taste the sweat gathering on Bucky’s neck. “You always are.”

 

Bucky nods and lets his body fall forward to drape across Steve’s. His head nuzzles its way head into the crease of Steve’s shoulder and neck. Steve can feel the dampness of tears and saliva mixing on his skin and groans. “I love you so much, Bu—”

 

Bucky pulls out and thrusts back in without warning. “Shit. Feels good.”

 

After a few more shallow thrusts, Bucky pushes up and back onto his knees to loom over Steve. He starts to build a slow, but deep rhythm. On the fifth thrust, Steve whimpers and wraps his legs around the small of Bucky’s back, trying to ground himself to something, to anything, to Bucky.

 

“Let me make you feel good, doll.”

 

Steve can’t help but blush at the dated nickname. Back in the 30s, he would have given Bucky a good swat when he called him that, but now he wants to be nothing but his doll and his sweetheart.

 

Bucky smiles at Steve’s reaction and squeezes his hip. “You are, aren’t you? My doll, Stevie. So perfect,” he says. His hand travels from where it’s gripping Steve’s hip, across the expanse of his abdomen to rest, palm open and fingers stretched, on his left pec. Steve brings a hand up to cover Bucky’s, but before he can lay it on top, Bucky’s thumb and forefinger are coming together to gently tug at his beaded nipple. Steve gasps and clutches Bucky’s wrist instead.

 

“After all these years, I still know how you work, Steve. They took so much from me,” he whispers between pants as his movements speed up. “But they couldn’t erase you. I still have you, baby.”

 

“You have me, Buck.”

Steve reaches for Bucky’s neck and tugs him down to meet his lips. They moan into the kiss, tongues twisting and teeth clashing. Their finesse is all but shot, but neither of them seem to care, both caught up and consumed by one another.

 

Steve gives up on trying to contain his noises, quiet gasps and whimpers escaping his lips whenever Bucky’s aren’t attached to his. He knows he sounds desperate, but he is. He’s been longing to feel this whole again for far too long.

 

“C-can you...please just…”

 

“Tell me what you need. Anything, Steve.”

 

“Touch me, Buck,” he pleads. “I need you to touch me.”

 

Without hesitation, Bucky reaches between their bodies and grips Steve’s pink and leaking cock. He flicks at the head with his thumb causing Steve to moan. “I got you, doll.”

 

Steve knows he isn’t going to last much longer with the way Bucky’s nailing his prostate and stroking his dick in time with their thrusts. He considers warning the other man, but he’s almost certain he’s aware with the way Bucky’s eyeing him, pupils blown wide and almost feral looking. This is his absolute favorite version of Bucky—the one who is too far gone from pleasure and love to be hesitant or self-loathing. This is where he finds the freedom to take what he deserves without feeling guilty.

 

Steve comes with a shout of his partner’s name. He grips Bucky’s shoulders, nails digging into hot flesh, and he hauls him forward. He’s addicted to the feel of his body trembling, helpless, beneath the weight of the other man.

 

When he feels Bucky start to pull out, Steve grips his hips and holds him firm to his sweat-slicked skin. “D-don’t stop, Buck. Need to feel you. Want you inside me.”

 

Bucky groans in response and pushes back in. Steve cradles the back of Bucky’s skull and starts whispering quiet encouragements of “you’re so good” and “let me feel you” into the shell of Bucky’s ear.

 

Bucky grunts. His thrusts are shallow and sporadic now, Steve’s body spasms around Bucky. “Come on, baby. Let go.”

 

One final thrust is all it takes and Bucky’s spilling into Steve. His breath stutters and his legs shake but Steve holds him through it, hands stroking his back. Bucky’s cock gives one last weak twitch and he sighs, pulling out and rolling to the side. Before he can get any farther, Steve curls into his side and rests his head on Bucky’s rapidly falling and expanding chest.

 

Steve’s throat feels dry, in need of water, but there’s something he needs to get out first.

 

“Buck?” he rasps.

 

“Yeah?” Steve knows there’s a smile plastered to his face. Without visual confirmation, he’s certain that Bucky is blissed out.

 

“I love you.”

 

Bucky’s hand comes down to stroke Steve’s hair, tan fingers sifting through damp, blonde locks. “I know,” Bucky deadpans.

 

Steve rolls his eyes and pinches one of Bucky’s nipples, eliciting an undignified squeak from the ex-assassin. They giggle and fall back into a comfortable silence.

 

Although his eyes are growing heavy and his breathing has slowed, Steve’s thirst get the best of him and he moves to leave their embrace and head to the kitchen. But before his bare feet even get the chance of touching the floor, he’s being tugged back.

 

“Stay,” says Bucky, voice quiet and raw, hand squeezing his hip.

 

Steve should leave it, let them have this moment, but he needs to know. His face grows serious and he pipes up. “In bed or in Wakanda?”

 

Bucky pulls him down further, until their bodies are plastered together. He rests his forehead against Steve’s and gives him a sad, but hopeful smile. “Both.” Steve frowns and Bucky pecks his lips. “Just—just stay—at least for now?”

 

Steve’s mouth finds Bucky’s for a proper kiss and he flips them over. A surprised chuckle escapes from Bucky’s lips. “Let’s make another deal.”

 

“Great, because the first one worked out exceptionally well.”

 

“Trust me,” Steve says.

 

“Fine. Let’s hear it.” Bucky’s chest is slightly shaking, unable to contain his laughter.

 

Steve smiles. “I’ll stay forever… and a day.”

 

“Rogers,” Bucky sighs, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You really are a sap.”

 

“No, Buck. I’m _your_ sap.” Steve quips. “Till the end of the line, Barnes?

 

“Till the end of the line, doll.”

 


End file.
